Three Words
by Nathaira-From-Hel
Summary: Three words only. Three short, loveless syllables. They shatter a whole world, break it into little pieces. His world. Falling apart. And he does not want to admit it at all.


Hello :)

First, I have to confess English is not my first language. Actually I usually write my stories in German for I live in Germany (Haha, surprise I know)

To play it safe I'm apologizing for any mistakes in spelling, grammar, etc if there is anything found (God, I hope not…).

Enjoy reading :)

* * *

Thor is dead.

That is all what the guard tells him as he stands in front of his cell, the bearded face furrowed with grief, his head pressed down as if the burden of all nine worlds would weigh on his shoulders.

Loki closes his book and nods. He watches how the guard implies a bow and then numbly walks away. The other men securing the dungeon show a similar behaviour.

Slowly, Loki puts the book aside and remains seated. He is silent. Very silent.

Thor is dead.

One sentence. Three words. He thinks about them. There are many sentences, that own three words only.

"I hate you" for example. "Let me go.", "Please, help me.", "I am scared.".

"_He is gone._"

He heard them all.

Sometime during the centuries his life already last.

But "_Thor is dead_" ? This combination… he never heard of it before.  
His folded hands rest in his lap. He stares at the wall without seeing it. He does not know what to do.

Thor is dead.

Loki does not like the third word. Somehow it sounds strange. Absurdly strange.

Thor is naïve.

Yes, that was right.

Thor is arrogant.

Oh yes, of course he was.

Thor is strong.

… Well, that was true. Not everybody could drag him back to Asgard. Loki is dangerous. Too dangerous to be given in the hands of weaklings.

Thor is dead…

No.

No, no, no. It does not work. Not a bit.

Loki breathes calmly. His heart is beating in a steady pace. Ba-dumm. Ba-dumm. He could fall asleep with it.  
Of course there had been rumours flying through the air, whispering on the floor. War would get worse. Vanaheim allied with Jotunheim. Enemies became friends searching for revenge. Their troops mingled with frost giants and snow beasts. Spilling oceans of blood wherever they went.

Many soldiers were dying in a shortened amount of time. The blood of gods stuck on icy blades and fed the thirsty earth.

Loki thought it was a joke. Paranoia. Until now . Now he realizes and he remembers how his brother loves to throw his hammer in the rage of battle and how he loves the triumph for slaying another one of those filthy creatures. Again and again. He won. He always won, right?  
Loki also remembers that their mother once laughed at his older brother and said (with a smirk), Thor adored Mjölnir so much he would share his bed with it and one day he would die by wrapping his arms around it tightly. Someday…

This day has already come.  
Because Thor is dead.

Loki closes his eyes because his sight suddenly vanishes. The room swims in travelling spots of light and greyish lines. He does not know why and being honest to himself he does not even want to know. He is afraid. The truth is what frightens him the most.  
If he considers it quietly, he does not even wonder about the ending of the Thunderer. A death on battlefield. He presaged it. But he was not sure, it would happen this soon.

Inconceivably soon… a God is not dying that easily. (Immortality is a curse. But at the same time it gives a bit of comfort.)

Loki bites his lower lip. Hard, so that he can taste rotten metal. Filling his mouth with its sweet bitterness it covers his tongue which once seemed to be made of precious silver. The blood blankets every sound.  
Something unbearably hot runs down his right cheek.

What is it?

Lie, Lie, it's a lie, bedded in saliferous tears.

Loki does not admit. Denying. He is good at denying. He knows how it works.

Thor is dead.

Three words only. Three short, loveless syllables.  
They shatter a whole world, break it into little pieces. His world. Falling apart.  
And he does not want to admit it at all.

Hours later he is still sitting on his chair. Motionless. Cold. So fragile it almost hurts to look at him.  
A statue of sharpened ice, skin like winter and a heart made of stone.  
And Loki thinks.  
Loki thinks about the three words he never brought upon his trembling lips. Three Words, which had been enough to put a last smile on Thor's face before his soul flew to Helheim, lost in its darkness. Forever.

_I am sorry._

Even now Loki can't spit them out. He remains. Silent.  
Why should he care? It is not important anymore, is it?  
For Thor won't hear him. Won't talk to him. Never again.

Because Thor is dead.

* * *

Hello again,

I hope you liked the story (at least a bit ;D)

Please… rate and comment (?) ^^'.


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